A Personal Entry
by SofiaLeith
Summary: John gets drunk on a random night and thinks too much about what really causes him pain, even if he doesn't want to admit it. A bottle of wine, a computer, a blog, and random midnight confessions. T for mild swearing.


**A/N:** Because I hate how Sherlock treats John sometimes, and the Adler episode is stuck in my head. He was just background noise on that episode, and I depised that. I get really carried away with my OTPs, and I feel their pain, don't judge me.

Anyway, hope you like my first Sherlock fanfic, and if you have the time, please review. Thank you!

* * *

Isn't this delightful? I'm here waiting, waiting yet again. What am I doing here? Why? I have so many questions in my head, but none of them make sense, and definitely none of them have answers.

What's happening to me? No. What's happening to me since I met _you_? What am I to you? What am _I_ to _you_? One does get too fond of their pet, I suppose, but then again, do I care for fondness if I will always be a pet?

I know how much you appreciate my loyalty, however, this may be only because you never had it from anyone. If I died, I'm pretty sure you could just take my skull and put it on your mantelpiece. You talk to me when I'm not even there, not because you miss my company, but because you haven't realized I'm gone.

You barely acknowledge my presence when I'm around, unless you have a case to solve.

Do you know what's my favourite colour? Season? TV show? Doubtful. You know what you can observe, but not what you can _learn_ from people, from talking. From being interested in what they have to say.

And it's so silly, isn't it? It's so silly that I care about this, because I know you don't, and you never will. There's no mystery to me, no spark, no nothing. I'm plain, ordinary, and _stupid_. I can't play games, and though it's fun to solve some puzzles with you, I'm not so into to them to the point of risking my life.

I do risk it, however, for you. What does _that _tell me?

I guess we both know the answer to that question, although I would very much love to deny it. Ha, love. Puppy love. _Stupid, ordinary, plain, boring, ignorant _love. I've gone out with so many women, not that you know or care, you barely remember their names, and they were all second. Second to you.

It really doesn't matter how many I meet, see, touch. I guess they are to me what I am to you.

Ouch, that hurt.

I regret so many things, so many, many things. I shouldn't have gone to war, it has ruined me forever. I've become addicted to a thrill I can only have in this mad life with you. I regret the amount of booze I had tonight, it's deeply impairing my already poor judgement.

I regret coming here.

I didn't understand what "dangerous" meant back then, not really. I had no idea. I thought it was dangerous to my life, in a physical way. I didn't fathom that coming here would rob me of my sleep, my love life, my sexuality, for God's sake. Apparently, it has also robbed me of my good sense. I'm drinking like my sister, and I despise that.

I despise how I grovel for something, a sign, a word, a simple glance would do. Just to know that I am not disposable. I AM NOT DISPOSABLE! Or at least I shouldn't be.

And it doesn't matter that you saved me a few times when you could've let me die, I don't think. I'm, after all, just a bloody pet of yours. You keep me around when you need, you kick me when you don't, and, for some fucking reason, I always come back. I look after you when I think you're sad, I follow you around hoping for a treat, I take your hurtful words, your careless act, I take it all.

Because I'm the biggest fool you've met.

I don't know you at all. Or maybe I do, maybe I just don't want to accept the fact that I know you _do_ love, you _do_ feel, _you are_, indeed, _human_ like me. Blood flows through your veins, you bleed, you hurt, you _care_.

Just not for me. Not enough.

You've just arrived. You don't even look at me or at what I'm doing, you just walk right past me, complaining about something I haven't done. I hate how meaningless I am to you at times. I hate myself for putting everything in my life on hold so I can take care of you. I can't blame my girlfriends for leaving, I don't have to wonder why I have no friends besides _you_. It's all _my _fault.

I put you first and foremost, because I am the biggest of all fools. Why do I care so much? Nah, better not answer that one, not again, not even in my head. What am I to you?

What am I to you, _Sherlock_?


End file.
